The morning sun had officially climbed and passed its peak, marking the arrival of the afternoon and the exact moment for the operation to go live. Everything was prepared. Standing in the absolute privacy of Room 102 at the Coal Mine Inn, I closed my single eye and triggered my biological overwrite.
The shapeshifting matrix flooded my system, violently reconstructing my anatomy to match the exact genetic code of Luke Granhart:
My hollow right socket twitched as a pristine, clear eye popped back out into existence.
My severed tongue rapidly regenerated within my throat, restoring my masculine vocal cords.
My left sleeve filled out completely as a perfectly functional, unscarred arm materialized from nothing.
My massive, razor-sharp crimson blood wings dissolved entirely, pulling back into my spine until my back was flat.
Finally, my hair shifted, taking on the precise texture and short, blonde style belonging to the Mafia apprentice.
The monstrous Eirene was gone. In her place stood the flawless double of Luke.
I immediately pulled on the fresh clothes Clara had gifted me, buttoning up the sharp polo shirt and pulling on the rugged trousers. To complete the tactical ensemble, I threw the heavy, deep-hooded traveling cloak over the outfit. This served a critical double purpose. First, I needed to maintain a strictly incognito persona; a notorious, 10-gold-piece wanted fugitive who had just shattered the unbreakable security of the Dodorant Citadel wouldn't just casually stroll down the streets of Carcaka in broad daylight. I had to be deeply secretive. Second, the heavy fabric acted as my essential double layer for sun protection, ensuring the harsh daylight wouldn't cause a single micro-flicker in my stolen DNA structure.
Before leaving, I grabbed the brutal, black-iron **Death Chant Shotgun** and securely strapped it underneath the folds of my cloak, hidden from the public eye but perfectly positioned for a rapid-fire draw. I intentionally left my leather purse… and the remaining 84 silver coins… safely hidden inside the clean room. I didn't need currency where I was going. I only needed this high-grade firearm to tear through the guild's security, bypass the frontline guards with a display of ruthless authority, and ultimately claim Don Anthony's head for my collection.
I checked the hood one last time, ensuring Luke's blonde hair and missing eye-scar were cast in deep shadow. Pushing the door open, I stepped out into the industrial heat of the afternoon. The Trojan horse was in motion.
Stepping out of the Coal Mine Inn, I was immediately greeted by the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of Carcaka in the post-noon light. The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke, sulfur, and grease. The streets were teeming with streams of weary yet determined laborers dressed in soot-stained overalls and thick leather aprons, all shuffling toward their afternoon shifts. In this industrial powerhouse, more than half of the population spent their lives bound to the roaring furnaces and assembly lines. Carcaka was, without a doubt, the core manufacturing engine of the continent of Andromeda, second only to the bureaucratic and militaristic majesty of Caria City itself.
Yet, amid the gray architecture and the choking smog, a unexpected splash of culture caught my single eye. Navigating the cobblestone pathways were several horses pulling passenger and cargo wagons. Instead of the utilitarian, boring wooden boxes one would expect in a grim manufacturing hub, these vehicles were marvels of local craftsmanship. They were vibrantly painted with intricate swirls, bright primary colors, and flashing brass accents that gleamed under the sun. Even in a town defined by backbreaking labor and severe economic struggle, the people still carved out a tiny, defiant pocket of joy. The sight triggered a sudden, vivid memory of the traditional kalesas from Earth's Philippines… a striking parallel of vibrant, horse-drawn resilience persisting through the grinding gears of daily life.
I pulled the deep hood of my traveling cloak lower, ensuring the blonde hair of my Luke Granhart disguise remained entirely cloaked in shadow as I steered my footsteps toward the western edge of the town. My destination was the sprawling, monolithic silhouette of the old Ford minting facility.
As the rusted iron perimeter of the abandoned factory loomed ahead, the historical weight of the structure flooded my mind. I vividly recalled the tense, whisper-quiet conversation I had shared with the disgraced tax collector, Harold Ford, inside a speeding carriage at dawn months ago. He had unburdened his bitter past to me, recounting how the tyrannical and corrupt ruler, Bernard Callus, had systematically orchestrated the artificial bankruptcy of the Ford Mint. Callus had ruthlessly seized their family assets, framed Harold's father for embezzlement, and effectively weaponized the region's currency supply to turn a proud lineage of coin-makers into desperate, groveling tax hounds.
Looking at the cracked brick walls and the shattered glass windows of the old facility, it was easy to see how the arms trafficking guild had recognized its tactical value. A massive, abandoned minting complex offered the perfect structural layout for a clandestine syndicate: subterranean vaults designed to hide massive wealth, heavy reinforced walls capable of muffled weapon testing, and loading docks meant for high-volume transport. The very machinery that once stamped out the legitimate coin of the world was now likely melted down or repurposed to forge black-market firearms for Don Anthony's empire.
Yet, a few recent intelligence sources stored within my analytical mind provided a fascinating, ironic update to the Ford family saga. While their ancestral factory here in Carcaka lay rotting as a criminal stronghold, Harold Ford himself had successfully played the long game. At this very moment, Harold was residing in high-society luxury within Caria City, having been officially appointed to oversee the brand-new, cutting-edge mint industry tied directly to the prosperous Caria Mines. The Ford family had completely recovered from Callus's historic sabotage. They were currently utilizing their generational expertise to actively stabilize the economy, managing the currency flow and aggressively fixing the severe deflation crises gripping Caria.
I stopped at the edge of the alleyway, my gaze locking onto the heavily fortified front gates of the old Ford facility. Two imposing Mafia sentries stood guard, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their blades and the stocks of their hidden firearms. The irony was exquisite: Harold Ford was in the capital fixing the kingdom's gold, while I was standing in his family's ruined legacy, preparing to use a stolen face and a hidden shotgun to bankrupt the syndicates that bled the world dry. I took a slow, steady breath, letting the simulated masculine vocal cords of Luke adjust in my throat, and stepped out of the shadows to confront the gatekeepers
I arrived at the perimeter of the abandoned Ford minting facility. Because the legitimate coin-smiths had long since fled, the sprawling, rusted complex was entirely occupied by the arms trafficking guild. I moved along the perimeter wall until I found a blind spot, then scaled the high fence with the fluid agility of a natural predator, slipping over the top without tripping any alarms.
Based on the highly detailed tactical map Luke Granhart had given me before his capture, the true heart of this syndicate operation wasn't in the decaying upper factories. It was an entirely underground facility, carved into the secure subterranean vaults where the kingdom's gold reserves used to be guarded. I navigated a series of rusted ventilation shafts and maintenance hatches until I lowered myself down into the dark, damp stone tunnels running beneath the foundation.
As I crept through the absolute gloom of the tunnel, I came across a reinforced iron security door equipped with a narrow, sliding peephole.
Before I could even reach for the handle, the iron slit snapped open with a sharp, metallic click. A pair of hostile eyes stared out at me from the bright room beyond, a hand instantly shifting toward a weapon on the other side.
Because I was now safely inside the subterranean tunnel network and away from the compromising glare of the sun, I reached up with my left hand and fluidly pulled my heavy hood completely off my head. The dim light from the peephole illuminated my face, exposing the short blonde hair and the exact structural geometry of the Mafia apprentice.
The guard behind the iron door froze, his hostile stance instantly evaporating as his eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He gasped, dropping his hand from his holster.
"L-Luke?! You're... you're alive? How the hell did you get out of the Citadel?!"